kaleidoscope
by sunspots and raindrops
Summary: He may have fallen first, but she has fallen harder; and the difference is that there was no one there to catch her when she spiraled into the prismatic, dizzying heartache that was being in love with Sawada Tsunayoshi. — [27K, post-canon, no major spoilers. T to be safe. Also references 8059.]
1. one

_._

one.

 _._

 _He fumbles at your spirit_

 _As players at the keys_

 _Before they drop full music on;_

 _He stuns you by degrees,_

 _._

The dark fades. The birds sing. The sun rises.

She waits, eyes still shut, for the soft click of a door closing, muted shuffle of bare feet on the wooden floor, the comfort of whisper-quiet sounds that would mean she was no longer alone.

It's the stillness of the morning, the crisp air eddying through the cracked-open window, the possibility of a _new day_ ; these are the things that anchor her and yet make her acutely aware of her solitude. Cocooned in layers of cotton as fluffy and white as the clouds in the sky, she lays perfectly still, silent. She knows it's pointless, but she gives a few more moments to the dream anyway.

And the dream is like it's always been – waking up in strong arms to a kiss on her forehead, murmured words of affection, the sensation of smiling again, blinded by the light. But it's only a dream, one that can only exist for the briefest of idyllic interludes before the kaleidoscope turns and the inevitable happens – " _I have to go."_

It's an admirable quality, his devotion, and Kyoko has always respected him for it. He has come a long way from the title of No-Good Tsuna to instead take up the mantle of Vongola Decimo, but he has always been a good person at heart. Sawada Tsunayoshi has always been – at least in her eyes – loyal to a fault.

And his loyalty to his family is what she finds fault with now, despite her best efforts to the contrary. Because it's loyalty to his _other_ family, the _Vongola_ family, and she knows it will always, _always_ trump her. " _You understand, don't you?"_ he's asked her a hundred, no, a _thousand_ times, hopeful and beautiful and apologetic all at once – and there is only one answer. " _Yes, of course I do."_

She does, in a way; more of an abstract idea that she tries to make sense of than one that truly resonates with her. For while he is so deeply devoted to the greater good and the mafia and his guardians, the only thing she is deeply devoted to is _him_. But Kyoko smiles and kisses him goodbye like it doesn't kill a little piece of her soul, her eyes bone-dry – she will shed no tears in front of him because she loves him. She loves him more than life itself and she doesn't want to break his heart the way he is inadvertently breaking hers. He is too good, too pure, still miraculously unsullied by the dark underworld he passes through, and Kyoko will not let herself be the one to taint him.

Heartbreak has not been like the smash and shatter of broken glass – it has been the daily wear, a slow and steady chipping away that has done it, protracted death in every glint of light reflected in scattered beauty from the wedding ring that reminds her she is alone. But she does not want to make him feel guilty, does not want to make him _choose_. He already has enough dark circles and worry-lines – the side-effect of being responsible for so many lives, having to make the hard decisions. It's only in the dead of night, curled up in their empty bed with golden eyes shut tightly, that she can admit to herself that really it's because she is afraid, terrified to her core and _sure_ that he would not choose her.

It has been ten years. Ten long years and they have lived the span of days that will never be, the age of Byakuran that has never come to pass in this world, all thanks to her husband. When they had triumphed, returned to their own time, she had been so young and hopeful, full of dreams and the idea that they could make a better world. And Tsuna had, oh how he had; except that what she hadn't counted on was the price they would have to pay – currency that was dark, gritty, brutal.

It had only been two years ago, after their first year of marriage that Kyoko had finally realized what the collateral damage was.

 _Her._

She was the bystander shot down in the crossfire, the sacrifice that had to be made for the sake of everything else.

And who was she to demand the world stop turning for her sake? The question had plagued her as she spent long minutes in the mirror dissecting her jealousy. She had no right. She did not own him as he seemed to own her – he belonged to truth and justice and a million facets of _good_ , and she… just belonged to him.

It had been a bitter realization that she has never really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

And he has always told her that he fights _for her_ , to protect her, but it's a placating sentiment that she has long since stopped believing. She thinks that maybe he still believes it, but he has always been prone to senseless optimism and near-delusion. So she plays along and treasures the time he does give her, stolen moments of bliss that she files away carefully so she can cling to the memories when he leaves again.


	2. two

.

two.

.

 _Prepares your brittle substance_

 _For the ethereal blow,_

 _By fainter hammers, further heard,_

 _Then nearer, then so slow_

 _._

It's Reborn who sees it one day – they are at the Vongola estate, hosting a mafia function purely to promote good relations between families. He sees _her_ , and the penetrating gaze is unsettling coming from his teenage face. "Kyoko-chan," he says, standing beside her as Tsuna talks with Enma across the party, "Thank you."

She turns toward him, startled and trying not to show it. "For what?"

He looks away, hands deep in his pockets. "You know what for."

Perfectly pink manicured fingers curl around her champagne flute more tightly, and her throat seems to close up as she tries to keep an even expression. A soft, sad sound escapes her before she replies honestly, "I wish I could say you're welcome."

At that, Reborn turns to her, dark eyes serious, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he lifts one hand to touch hers in a rare gesture, squeezing for a moment. Kyoko blinks rapidly, clearing away tears before they can fall. "Thank you all the same," he says solemnly and walks away, leaving her to lift the glass to her lips, downing it in one gulp.

It is the first time anyone has so openly acknowledged the reality of her life, the difficulty of loving a man who is the boss of a mafia family, the cruel truth of perpetual second place. It hurts more than she thought it would – Kyoko thought she had come to terms with it long ago, but the wound stings – fresh, raw, open, like it has been inflicted all over again.

All at once, the world seems to narrow down to her, to primal instinct and pain. She inhales sharply, and it feels like it stings her nostrils, oxygen gone acrid with the intangible sensation of hating herself.

 _Weak_ , she thinks. _I'm weak._

The colors around her blend and merge, morphing nonsensically – a thousand faces and suits and dresses, refracted through her tears until they are shapeless, until she is hollow and hurting and _scared_ of her own selfishness.

A waiter passes by, asking if she's finished with her glass and Kyoko blinks, is grateful to be jarred out of her distorted reality. She places it on the tray with shaky fingers and thanks him. The world is right-side-up again, with her on the bottom, and she fists one hand in the peach tulle of her gown. She cannot – _will not_ – cry.

The clock hands move slowly, gliding through the night until it's long past the witching hour and the ballroom has emptied. The staff is cleaning up around the few Vongola affiliates who are still there: surprisingly sober Squalo trying to wrangle an uncooperative, half-drunk Xanxus to just get to their room, Bianchi and Lal barely conscious, sprawled in lazy comfort on a divan, Chrome talking softly with Ken and Chikusa by the doorway.

But Kyoko doesn't notice – or at least, she doesn't care enough to really register any of it as she sits alone at the bar, chin resting on one hand. The bartender has gone home, and her eyes are glassy, following the hypnotizing swirl of lemon rind and half-melted ice in her vodka as she turns her wrist; over and over, wave after wave of clear liquid lulling her into absent-mindedness. _Sometimes, it's easier to be numb._

Except that she isn't, because the sound of Gokudera and Tsuna's conversation across the room still filters through, still cuts into her heart. She lifts her hand and knocks the drink back in one go, the burn tingling in her chest, and when she lowers the glass, she is not alone.

"Yo," is the soft greeting from beside her, and she turns to find warmth, soft eyes like melted chocolate, but they are not the ones she has been waiting for.

"Hey," she replies, setting her cup down with a quiet thunk, voice coming out more broken than she meant it to.

Yamamoto must know better, because he doesn't ask how she is, moving silently behind the bar to pull out a glass for himself. He glances at her with a smile, his trademark, but it's tinged with sadness this time. Strangely, she doesn't resent it – it doesn't feel like pity or patronization or sympathy; it feels like pain, pain and understanding and _empathy_. "You want another drink?"

She nods, jaw muscles twitching, the motion jerky. "Vodka on the rocks, please."

He looks down at her glass, then at her face again. "No twist this time?"

"Don't bother," Kyoko sighs, carding fingers through her strawberry-blonde bangs absently.

"Okay," he agrees without further question, and sets about making their drinks. _Always-amicable Yamamoto_ , she dubs him in her mind as she watches him pour the liquor. For some reason, the name is hilarious, but her laugh is a bitter exhale when it leaves her lips.

He does not ask what's so funny, and she's sure he knows the answer – nothing. It's a knee-jerk reaction, to express _something_ , venting frustration and grief. She has seen in his eyes the same thing she sees in her own reflection – _second-best_ , picking up the pieces, walking the edge of a knife, afraid to ask for more because someone _will_ get hurt, be utterly destroyed, and it's probably _you_. And she knows by heart the flicker of pain that crosses his face every time they hear an impassioned "Juudaime!" float through the air.

Handing her the alcohol before picking up his own, Yamamoto asks carefully, quietly, "So… What should we drink to tonight?"

Kyoko fights the urge to laugh-sob again, and looks him dead in the eye. "Love," she says tonelessly, and raises her glass toward his.

"To love," he agrees, pressing his lips into a thin line that holds the ghost of a smile long-since dead.

And when their glasses clink, it sounds like the last few shards of broken hearts falling to join the rest.

—

She falls asleep on the hard marble bartop, alcohol having made her comfortable and giggly and then so very warm and sleepy, but then again, she had already been exhausted before she'd even had a drop. There is something being draped over her shoulders – _a suit coat?_ – and a hand on her back rousing her gently. "Hmmm," she hums quietly, half a question because she had been sleeping and it had been so peaceful, so dreamless; it had been the first time in a long time she had felt so content, why would someone be waking her?

"Come on, let's go home," a voice whispers near her ear, and _this_ wakes her because it is the voice her ears have strained to hear all night.

One eye cracks open blearily as Kyoko struggles to lift her heavy head and asks, "What time is it?"

"Time to go home," he says, a smile in his voice. So she opens her eyes and looks at him, checking to make sure he is real and he _is_ – Tsuna, disheveled but handsome, so heartbreakingly handsome; he's so handsome and she loves him and she tells him so, hands in his hair and voice still rough from sleep.

He gathers her into his arms and lets out a soft chuckle. "I love you, too."

Kyoko buries her face into his shoulder, overwhelmed all of a sudden – the alcohol is still working its magic and she feels too much, too deeply.

When Tsuna picks her up she protests, "I can walk–" but he ignores her and carries her to the door anyway, her very own fairytale as everything shifts and she feels happy and in love, so much in love.

There are two dark sedans waiting out front, and she sees a flash of silver and long limbs being folded into one of them. There is an almost-inaudible grumble of "Baseball idiot" and she wants to smile because she knows it's as close to an endearment as Gokudera is liable to utter. _Even if it's not enough, he loves you, too, Yamamoto_ , she wishes she could tell him, almost giddy as she slides into the backseat. _To love, indeed._


	3. three

.

three.

.

 _Your breath has time to straighten,_

 _Your brain to bubble cool,—_

 _Deals one imperial thunderbolt_

 _That scalps your naked soul._

 _._

It is only fifteen minutes from the estate to their house, but in that interlude, the world seems to tilt on its axis again, and Kyoko is frustrated, simmering with resentment by the time they arrive. _Fifteen minutes_ , she broods, _Fifteen minutes is all I got with my husband the_ _ **entire night**_ _, and not a second of it at the party!_

Passive aggressive, she does not take the hand Tsuna offers her when she exits the car, shoving his suit jacket into it instead and stalking up the sidewalk with the click-clack of her heels punctuating each stride.

"Kyoko, what's wrong?" he asks, catching up to her at the door.

"Nothing," she seethes, and she is doing her best to keep a lid on her emotions. All she wants to do is take off the dress and jewels, climb into bed, and sleep for a very long time. All she wants to do is forget.

But Tsuna is persistent, following her through the hall and up the stairs to their bedroom. "It doesn't seem like nothing," he states innocently, curious, wanting to help.

"I said it's nothing!" Her voice inches toward hysteria, and when he protests again, she snaps, whirling to face him.

"It's nothing! It's just me! And I'm nothing, so it doesn't matter, does it?! I don't matter!" she yells, shaking with intensity.

He stares at her, genuinely worried, and reaches out to touch her. "What are you talking about, Kyoko? Of course you mat–"

She throws a punch and he catches it easily, on instinct, even while he struggles to process what's happening.

And the alcohol has worn off and Kyoko is tired and angry and terrified because she is letting him _see_ this, but it's too late and she is heartbroken and desperate and needy to a degree she had not even realized herself. The shock is plain on his face, but she cannot stop now.

"It would be easier if you just divorced me, Tsuna! At least then it would be a clean break!" she shouts, ripping away from him to face the opposite direction, vengeful and honest, made up of jagged edges and insecurities. She wants to throw things, to scream until her voice goes hoarse, to pummel with fists and words until she is not the only one who is hurting anymore.

But she doesn't. Instead, she sinks to the ground, face in her hands, ballgown rumpling around her in swaths of tulle. Tsuna does not move, and she does not have to look at him to know he is lost.

"Just please, stop giving me tiny pieces of yourself and expecting me to be happy with that," she whispers, confessional. "I can't keep doing this. I love you so much, but I can't keep waiting for scraps of love from you while you take care of everyone else, give the best of yourself to everyone except for me. If you don't think I deserve your time or attention, I'd rather have none at all than the leftovers."

And there it is, the irrational emotion that she's tried so hard to keep secret, laid bare in the space between them.

A few moments pass, and when Tsuna finally speaks his voice is small, strained, "Kyoko, I – I'm sorry."

She sighs, standing slowly. "I know."

Nothing else is said while she methodically gets undressed and climbs under the covers, not bothering to undo her hair or take off her makeup. She lays there for a minute, staring up at the ceiling, and Tsuna has not moved from where he stands by the window.

The clock ticks, the sound almost deafening in the dead silence. Kyoko does not know how long they stay like that, frozen, before Tsuna breaks the tableaux, stripping off his tie and moving stand above her, next to the bed. "How long?"

She shifts to look at him, and his face is shadowed but she can see the serious lines of his expression. "How long what, Tsuna?" she asks tiredly.

He sits on the mattress' edge, still half-dressed, and holds her gaze while he repeats, "How long… have you felt this way?"

It is not a question Kyoko expected, and she has to turn away. "I don't know." She pauses, then admits, "A long time."

He exhales in a sound that seems like regret and frustration, gripping the duvet tightly in one fist before slowly releasing it.

"Kyoko."

When she doesn't respond, he moves to lean over her, fingers pressed to her cheek. "Kyoko. Please, look at me."

She does, and it _hurts_ because she sees that _he_ hurts and oh, this is just what she wanted to avoid in the first place. Fresh tears threaten, and Kyoko swallows hard. "What?"

He is close, so close she can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the downward tug of muscles itching to frown. "I am so sorry." This time, she doesn't reply. Tsuna's fingers trace her cheekbone, callouses catching on her skin with the caress. "I love you," he says, and it's desperate, a plea, a prayer, penitence. Suddenly, he presses himself against her, face in the crook of her neck, embracing however he can. His lips graze her throat and she can feel him tremble when he swears, "I will do better, I promise. Please, please forgive me. I love you so much."

When his voice breaks on the last phrase, Kyoko chokes on a sob. "How am I supposed to believe that?" she whispers in spite of herself.

He pulls away slightly so he can look at her to say with calm determination, "Because you come first. You always have. And I will do whatever I can to make up for not showing you that all along."

She can feel his heartbeat, drumming against her fingertips, and she keeps her mind occupied by counting out the rhythm until he continues, "I never wanted you to be involved with the family because it can be messy and ugly, and I didn't want you to have to see the things that I do. But if it's what you want, we can do this together." His voice goes hard and serious, "Make no mistake, I will protect you, _because_ you come first. But you can be a part of it... if you want."

Kyoko doesn't know what she wants, really, all she knows is that she wants _Tsuna_ , and that for him to offer this to her is not easy, a compromise she never expected.

"Do you trust me?"

And she doesn't know the answer to that either, not until it's already there – a tiny nod, the beginning of hope flowering in her chest. She kisses him then, and pulls him to tumble into bed with her.

They are all fingers and lips and tangle of limbs, heated skin and whispered promises, desperation and love, coming together with perfection Kyoko has dreamed about for months. She feels treasured and loved and _needed_ and it's slowly filling all the empty spaces in her heart where she thought she would feel echoes forever.

She feels whole for the first time in a long time.

—

Morning approaches and Tsuna is running his hand through her hair, any semblance of style long gone, when she wakes, sighing. "What is it?" he asks softly.

Sitting up partway to grasp the crumpled duvet and pull it over them, Kyoko smiles and shakes her head. "Nothing."

He gives her a worried look, and she is quick to allay it. "Really, nothing." Nestling into the crook of his arm, she kisses him gently. "I trust you."

"Thank you." He sounds so grateful, so relieved, and the kiss he drops on the top of her head feels reverent.

Soon, Tsuna's breathing evens out into the easy pattern of sleep, and Kyoko is content to lie there and let morning come.

The dark fades. The birds sing. The sun rises.

She waits; this time with a soft smile, with trust, with hope.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know, I know, I have about a **thousand bajillion** other things I need to be working on, but writing is writing and this is what happened. I'm just happy I'm writing again. I don't know if there are any 27K shippers out there, but honestly I'm just so glad my muse isn't dead altogether!

— Also, I dropped the suffixes because that would have meant going back through the manga and ain't nobody got time for that. Plus, they're all adults now, and having Tsuna (as a grown man!) call her Kyoko-chan seems icky to me.

As always, let me know if you find any errors, since I don't have a beta! Thanks for reading, hope someone out there enjoyed ^_^

Opening poetry: belongs to Emily Dickinson.  
Theme music: "Dry Tears" from the Lovely Complex OST & "Euterpe" from the Guilty Crown OST. *cries all the tears*


End file.
